


come out, come out to the sea, my love (find me, in the shallows)

by solitariusvirtus



Series: Uncanny Westeros (Otherworlds) [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Conflict Resolution, Drabble Collection, F/M, False Identity, Internal Conflict, Myrcella Doesn't Survive Dorne, Psychological Trauma, Robb Lives, Rosamund takes Myrcy's place, Scars, Trauma, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-25 21:09:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4976623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>The King in the North accepts a truce with young King Tommen Baratheon. Robb Stark is to wed Princess Myrcella and peace shall reign.<br/><br/><br/>But what does one do with a dead princess?<br/><br/><br/>AU! Rosamund Lannister is forced into the game of thrones and left to the mercy of the wolves.<br/><br/><br/></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Rosamund is a Lannister of Lannisport, not a Lannister of Casterly Rock. Her hair is the same color as mine, but straight instead of curly. Rosamund doesn’t truly favor me, but when she dresses up in my clothes people who don’t know us think she’s me. We traded places on the Seaswift, on the way to Braavos. Septa Eglantine put brown dye in my hair. She said we were doing it as a game, but it was meant to keep me safe in case the ship was taken by my uncle Stannis.</em>
    <br/>
  </p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	1. i - just drown with me

i

Cella lies there, sweat pouring down her brow. Rosamund holds her close, fingers twined in her golden locks and a prayer upon her lips. Cella is not her friend. She had never been. But these past moons, together, always together they've kept, up until the point her own hair had been curled and her face painted in red spots.

They are not friends. But she has acted Cella's part enough to know that they are sisters in their suffering.

The Princess whimpers softly. Rosamund tentatively touches her own scar and wonders why the gods have given the fever to the one that carries some weight.

ii

They bury her somewhere near the sept. Rosamund's eyes are red rimmed, lined with kohl to hide it. These are not marks of sorrow though. She hasn't cried for Cella's death. She cannot seem to, although she tries.

The Dornish servant curls her hair, one thick strand at a time. The iron emanates heat; it almost sears the back of her head. But Rosamund says not a thing. Her hands have fisted together in the skirts of her dress, pulling at the fine gauze.

She wonders for how long the charade will last.

In King's Landing they shall stone her to death, she thinks, for having failed the Princess. And they would be right to.

iii

Nymeria does not enter the wheelhouse. She says she prefers riding. Rosamund does not care. Or rather Princess Myrcella does not care about a bastard's preferences. So Rosamund keeps her peace and tries not to feel out of place in one of Myrcella's best dresses.

She wants to cry out. She wants to throw herself beneath the pounding hooves of the horses but fears that they should only further main her. Rosamund fear survival. Fears, fears, fears beyond all words what waits for her. These chains, golden, supple bonds, hold her tightly. But she should not.

Rosamund Lannister is dead, after all. Dead girls have no fear.

Myrcella Baratheon is still a Princess.

Myrcella still lives.

iv

They set sail for Braavos. There an escort will be waiting for her.

For Myrcella, that is.

The Princess hides her face beneath fine veils and stays within her cabin at the direction of Nymeria. Rosamund suspects the woman knows she means to lay the mask to rest and that is why someone lingers around her at all times.

Even now as they lie abed together, she and Nymeria, Rosamund feels her eyes on the scarred flesh. Judging. Weighing.

She thinks about swallowing her own tongue. For just a moment though. Then decides she'll find another way as her companion calls her name.

"Do you sleep, little Rosamund?"

v

Gauze turns to linen. Rosamund looks down at the embroidered hems of her shift and admires the way the golden thread shines in the dim light. She raised her hands on command and the dress covers her. The green kirtle should bring out her eyes.

On Myrcella is would have worked. Her eyes, of vivid green, had been made to stand out.

Rosamund's are less so. The golden flecks work against the green, dulling, unmatching.

Her face is hidden beneath a golden veil this time, the curls slipping around the edges, tight ringlets framing her face.

Rosamund dons the mask once again, straightening her back.

vi

It is the look upon Ser Jaime's face that breaks her composure. Green eyes stare at her, green eyes as hers should be. And horror lingers in the gaze. Horror come just after the realisation.

They know. They know she is not Myrcella.

Heart sinking in her stomach, Rosamund removes her veil, her golden shroud and presents to all her scarred face.

The King's council breaks out into loud argument, and she barely catches anything more that the word _Stark._

The name _Stark._

She quivers and falters, tripping over her own feet as she makes to retreat.

And Rosamund falls down, down, down.

vii

When she wakes, she is in a sumptuously decorated bedchamber. The curtains have been let out, so she is hidden from view. But the light gossamer allows her own eyes to make out, albeit poorly, what is around her.

She has never been within the Red Keep before.

From without noise can be heard. Instinctively, Rosamund draws the covers over herself and stops breathing.

The creaking of an opening door follows and in mere moments the curtains part.

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard stares down at her. "You will tell me everything that happened in Dorne." There is no inflection, no anger; only emptiness.

viii

The Queen Mother never comes to see her. Rosamund is glad for that. She does not think she could bear reliving Cella's death to her as well. It hurts. The pain lingers, grows and stretches even with everyday that they keep her locked within Cella's chambers.

They have not killed her yet. But Rosamund knows it is not far off, this fate of hers.

Sometimes she prays to the Mother and the Maiden. Not to the Father though. There is no justice in this world. But mercy is not unheard of. She prays that somehow she'll be sent back to Lannisport and left to her mother's loving embrace and her father's tales of war.

ix

Lord Regent Kevan Lannister comes to her one day. Rosamund does not know what to expect when the man calls upon her to join him without, in the gardens. Nonetheless, refusal is not an option.

The roses have wilted. Rosamund looks at one of the dried flowers with a drop of pity.

"The King needs your service," the lord regent tells her. "The realm has need of Myrcella to live."

"But Her Grace is dead," Rosamund replies flatly.

"Not as far as the inhabitants of the kingdoms know." They look at one another. Rosamund parts her lips to refuse. "The only other option is war. Do you wish for war?"

x

She dons her veils and keeps her eyes upon the ground when they take her before the King. Tommen sits upon throne, an awkward child waiting for the puppeteers to pull his strings. The puppeteers do.

"It has been decided," Mace Tyrell speaks in that strange voice of his, "that Her Grace, Princess Myrcella, shall by her marriage to the King of the North, seal an alliance between our kingdoms and end the war. Let there be peace, from this day forth."

The noblemen echo the words if not the sentiment.

Once more, Rosamund is forced into Cella's dreams and desires, wed far away into the bitter North.

She wants to weep, but can not do so before the gathering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just testing. This will likely be a short piece, about five chapters.
> 
> If you liked it or you have suggestions, do tell me. :)


	2. ii - watching stars collide

i

Ser Jaime gives her a long look, holding himself stiff with a cast radiating something Rosamund cannot name. She keeps to her seat as the Lord Hand continues his long list of instructions and the Queen, Margaery – the only queen now – watched her through lowered lids, as if she’d trying not to let on that her eyes are attracted to the scarred flesh.

She does not wear her veil. These people already know who she is. Or better even, what she is. A watered down version of Cella. The quick replacement to be flung into the fray.

Rosamund nods her head absently. She counts the number of cracks she can spot on the opposite wall and wonders if she will ever feel like she is not drowning. It was supposed to be a game – one big game – in which she traded places with the Princess. It seems like the is forever stuck beyond the looking glass.

ii

Cold gold wraps around her neck tightly, burning her skin like a brand. Margaery stands behind her with a small smile upon her lips. “With a low neckline, this would look beautiful.” It doesn’t truly matter, Rosamund thinks, as she knows a shroud of golden hair will obscure the view.

Do they truly believe that heaping enough jewellery on her will somehow stop the Northerners from looking at her ruined face and sneering?

“Take heart, to be Queen may be a great responsibility, but it has rewards that are worth the effort.” The young woman slides a bracelet on Rosamund’s hand. “You shall enjoy it.”

She won’t. “I am sure I shall, Your Grace.” Cella would have. But Cella was born to.

All that Rosamund ever wanted was a brave knight and a home of her own.

iii

They ask it of her as if the answer carries no consequence. In truth, Rosamund knows it to carry little consequence. After all, Lady Sansa Stark has been in a similar position. So she gathers her tattered pride, closes her eyes and opens her mouth. “I am not yet three-and-ten.”

Cella had been younger. By a bit. Still, she is now Princess Myrcella and if it is required of her to play wife and queen, how can she refuse?

Braver maidens have trod that path. There has been enough war.

“Three-and-ten? Are you a maiden flowered?” Rosamund shudders as the question leaves the Grand Maester’s mouth.

“Aye.”

iv

The dress is white, like the first snowfall of the year. Small beads cling to the material and the white and gold lion runs a ring around the billowing skirts. Rosamund looks at the ghost in the looking glass and hates how much she wishes she could smile.

This is every maiden’s dream.

The coronet upon her brow presses into her skin uncomfortably.

The seamstress murmurs appreciatively at the way her masterpiece has come along.

“It will do very well,” the Queen says, all smiles. Rosamund hates her as well. She hates her for pretending that all is well. And she hates Cella for burdening her with these duties.

v

Just before she leaves, Ser Jaime helping her into the wheelhouse, Rosamund comes face to face with the distraught, half-mad Queen Mother. Locked away in her tower she has been, but somehow she escaped.

It does not bode well, not for Rosamund, not when she is pulled backwards by the golden ringlets that rain down her back. She barely understands what the madwomen yells out. There is no coherence there. Just sorrow.

There is a witch and blood and golden shrouds – they all come together into a torrent of vile imprecations and wild accusations.

The Kingsguards have a hard time of it convincing Cersei Lannister to let go. But as soon as she does, her whole demeanour changes. The Queen Mother throws her arms around her. “Myrcy, where have you been? Where have you been? I thought they’d killed you.”

vi

They give her a handmaiden. One of the Queen’s. Her name is Alla and she is about as old as Cella would be. Alla Tyrell avoids her gaze whenever she can and doesn’t dare speak in anything more than a whisper. Rosamund ignores her.

The wheelhouse rolls and rolls and rolls along the road. It seems to her that she will go forever and ever upon this road and not reach her destination at any point.

She is not heading for Winterfell, of course. The Crag is where she will become wife and queen.

Rosamund picks at her skirts, pinching the thick material between her fingers. The Crag is a ruin. She herself is a ruin. The irony wraps snugly around her.

vii

Jeyne weeps into her pillows. She has drunk her mother’s tea and blood stains the sheets. Mother says it is better. The Lannisters are strong and mighty and offending them is not desirable.

But Jeyne doesn’t care about the Lannisters. She only wants Robb. She loves Robb.

Her fingers curls into the sheets as another sob is lost amid feathers.

Mother has locked the door, baring it from without. She is to stay within her bedchamber until Princess Myrcella arrives.

Yet when the maiden does arrive, Jeyne does not know what she will do.

They call what happened to her an act of war.

She calls it an act of love.

viii

His own lady mother would place duty beneath family and honour. Robb, king that he is, cannot choose family, nor even honour before duty.

He downs the wine in his cup and smashes it against the table in the solitude of his bedchamber. It does not change that duty comes first, of course, but the emptiness within him fills and fills with anger until it is nearly bursting.

He remembers Myrcella Baratheon, a slip of a girl with her mother’s golden hair and a pair laughing eyes. He doesn’t want Myrcella. Yet this is not about his wants.

Robb picks up the cup and fills it once more to the brim. He has lost count by now of how many cups he’s downed. All that he knows is that it is not enough.

ix

A swift gale blows the banners and the column nears the keep’s gates. Robb watches the procession, for a moment remembering a similar tableau from what seems a past life. He has not brothers with him, nor does he have his parents. It is only him to meet the approaching doe.

It takes a lot of his patience to keep still as the wheelhouse draws to a halt before him. He recognises Ser Jaime. The other Kingsguard he does not know. It does not matter either. They shan’t linger long enough for him to care.

And then his bride steps down from her vehicle. One dainty foot after another, the veiled Princess makes for the ground.

x

Hands atremble and body quaking, Rosamund steps without the safety of the wheelhouse. The stares of those around her burn. The veils cover the scars, but they won’t always do so. She braves the looks nonetheless and looks up into the face of her husband in a rare moment of daring.

He is not extremely tall, nor very wide. But it is clear to her that before her stands a man, not a boy. Her gaze falls to the ground as her presence is loudly announced for all to hear.

Cella would mayhap smile at the crowd and produce some sympathy. But Rosamund cannot smile.

She gulps.

xi

She is ushered within the keep, into a bedchamber they say she is to share with her handmaiden. Rosamund watches dispassionately as Alla opens one of the trunks and pulls out the dress, her special dress.

A feast shall be served. Not a wedding feast. That shall be in three days’ time.

But the dress must breathe.

Alla then selects another piece that she may wear.

Rosamund allows the younger maiden to help her out of the thick travelling dress and into the bath that has been prepared for her. The water nearly scalds her. But the scent of herbs invited her within, like a trap, a sweet, sweet trap.

She lets herself be caught willingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made quick work of the second chapter and decided to post it today since I saw no point in waiting.
> 
> Tell me what you think. :)


	3. iii - stripped and bare

i

Princess Myrcella is walked down the aisle by her uncle. Robb cannot help but wonder, watching them advance side by side is there is any truth to those tales that are whispered about – dreadful tales of a brother loving his sister as a man loved a woman.

This Myrcella is nothing like the girl he remembers. That one could smile. The young doe before him trembles like a leaf in the storm and barely ever looks upon anyone with kindness. Instead she withdraws within her own keep, behind insurmountable walls.

And there is the scar. Robb doesn't truly allow his eyes to linger too long on it, but the slash of red against porcelain white is vivid.

ii

His hand is big enough to cover all of hers. Rosamund watches in fascination the play of colour, of light and shadow, as his warm palm touches the back of her hand.

A hush has fallen over the throng of noblemen and knights. It is done out of respect for their King, she knows, not for the silly, scarred Southron Princess. More than one man has looked at her face with that look akin to pity but even more cutting by its measuring quality.

Her cloak is set loose from her shoulders, the lion brooch falling to the ground as the mantle lands in Ser Jaime's arms.

Robb Stark, King in the North, presents her with an ice-white cloak, trimmed with dark grey fur. She knows a wolf is running across that field. Her golden and red past has been erased from this moment.

She is Queen Myrcella. In word, if not in deed.

iii

Olyvar Frey is her husband's squire. The tall man invites her to dance as Robb is caught in conversation with some of his lords. She is not privy to those talks yet; Princess Myrcella has spoken her vows and shed her cloak, but in their eyes she has yet to become the North.

Rosamund is not bothered. But neither does she want to dance. Yet like any lady of good breeding, she stands to her feet and offers the gallant squire as sure a smile as she can produce, allowing her hand to touch his lightly.

There are others dancing as well. Some stumble on their steps and some follow the tunes with graced. Rosamund closes her eyes and pretends she is in her father's hall, dancing with one of her older brothers.

iv

Greatjon Umber takes pride in his missing fingers. Robb chuckles at the man's recount, or rather boast, of how he's earned his wounds. From the corner of his eye he catches a flare of gold and follows it with a sharp movement of the head.

Myrcella is dancing with Olyvar.

Robb turns back to his men. They continue to speak about the campaign. Some of them look relieved that the war is over. They have won lands, after all, and gold and a kingdom to rival King Tommen's. A pang of guilt settles low in his stomach at the though of leaving the Crag. But nay, 'tis not his place to dwindle.

A king must rule.

v

The fiddlers have begun playing the song of the bedding. Rosamund sips from her cup of wine with more calm than she necessarily feels. Her feet ache, her lids are near dropping, her stomach is churning. Half-asleep from the wine and excitement of the day she endures the tugs and bawdy jests, a cool smile upon her lips.

Her face burns with embarrassment. The gown grows looser and looser from the strings being tugged at. She hopes it won't come off before she is within the bedchamber. A mere shift is not enough of a shield for her.

The stitches holding her sleeve together rip.

vi

Were his hair darker he could have easily passed for a Baratheon, with his blue eyes and sturdy frame. Rosamund remains seated upon the bed's edge, clutching the front of her gown, holding it tightly against her as if to prevent any of her skin from showing within the warm glow of the candles.

He strides towards her with the ease of a wolf, moving through the light and shadows. She stops herself from uttering a single sound when she is lifted to her feet, gently.

He is not callous, not in any way, yet he is not forgiving either.

The kirtle slips down her shoulders, the chemise gives way easier than the gate facing a battering ram would.

Her defences are a pile of silk and gossamer at her feet.

vii

It is the first time he's been so close to the scar marring the otherwise unblemished skin. There is no ear to be found there and the cut slides down to her cheek. Robb focuses on this imperfection, unsure if she presents this side of her face to him because she wishes to wipe away any stirring of desire or it she'd doing it unconsciously.

Whatever the case, he no more wants to bed her than she does. Yet there is enough to her warmth and gently rising curves to make coupling possible. Robb doesn't try to turn her face towards him. She is welcome to keep her eyes upon the wall if that is her choice. He doesn't think that looking into her eyes would help matters any.

viii

The tight passage burns with every retreat and slide, the back and forth motion helped along only by some miracle devised by the gods. Tears cling to her lashes and the bride bites on her lip to keep from weeping.

It shall be over soon. So they told her.

Frankly, Rosamund thinks they lied to her. This doesn't seem like it will ever end.

The King's weight is hot and uncomfortable, pressed tightly against her, skin rubbing against slick skin. Her legs ache with the strain her fingers twist the sheets around tightly. Warm breath slides against her scarred cheek, coming out in short gasps.

Then a shudder follows.

ix

He rolls away from the quivering form beneath him, lungs crying out for air. This in itself is a form of vengeance. The reason why he offers no pity is not because his heart is made out of stone. It's because none such has been offered to his own sister. He won't be cruel to her forever. Not even for a moment beyond this night.

Robb feels the mattress rising and dipping with Myrcella's movement. He imagines she has turned her back towards him and in his mind's eye golden curls burn dark, as dark as his fair lover's hair.

The King opens his eyes and banishes Jeyne from his mind.

x

Lying on her side, Rosamund listens carefully to the pattern of her husband's breathing. She lies still and listens until it is all an undisturbed stream.

Then she carefully slides out from beneath the furs, her bed-warmed skin prickling uncomfortably at the coolness of the chamber. The fire in the hearth has gone one. Still, there is enough light from without for her to trace the discarded gown and shift.

There is too much honesty in nakedness.

She picks the one closest to her and slides it upon her body. Like this she can cling to at least a shred of distance; she can put a wall, however flimsy between her and Robb Stark.


	4. iv - time, it slowly kills me in my cold bed

i

The pain is not entirely gone, but Rosamund manages to slip out of bed without losing her footing. She grimaces lightly as her skin pulls with the dried blood and seed, the prickly sensation exacerbated by the mild ache in her lower back.

Her eyes slide to the silver looking glass, her reflection straight back at her insolently, curls having gone limp and the scar more livid in the morning light.

Rosamund turns away from her double and runs her fingers through the thick hair. The heavy curtain must be curled once more and soon.

When they reach the North, she tells herself, she'll allow it to uncurl in its own time.

ii

Alla wields the hot iron with a sure grip, taking thick strands and assembling together the image of Princess Myrcella. Rosamund keeps her hands in her lap, eyes stuck on a far away cloud that glides through the heavens. She has not broken her fast yet and her stomach protest at the poor treatment. Yet the young bride ignores the rumbling.

"That should do," the Tyrell maiden says. She sounds very much like her kin in King's Landing. For a moment the Lannister dares to wonder about her supposed brother and his lady wife. She wants to laugh at that. They are not man and wife. Tommen is just a silly boy who has had the luck of a strong family giving him support.

Gods help the kingdoms in his keeping when he does become the ruler in truth.

"Enough for now." Rosamund takes to her feet. "I am yet tired."

iii

"Your Grace," someone calls out from behind her, startling the fair Queen of the North. Rosamund checks her step but does not halt entirely. Instead she listens to the approaching entity. "Your Grace, the King will have you attending court."

She turns around at that, incredulous. Attending court. She hasn't Cella's education in these matters. Alas, poor Rosamund, she cannot refuse.

"I hear and obey," she replies, only half-mockingly. Her feet are already moving, the hem of her skirts lifting ever so slightly.

She follows the servant into the great hall and is not astounded that her entrance should garner the attention it does. Despite the burning desire to run away and hide, Rosamund braves her discomfort and trudges towards her husband, eyes falling on the conspicuously empty chair at his side.

iv

Lord Jonos Bracken resumes his litany of accusation as soon as she has seated herself next to the King. Lord Tytos Blackwood is not silent. No meek lambs, her husband's bannermen. Rosamund leans back in her chair, mild irritation slipping through her tattered self-control.

There are times when one must deal with matters in one's court though.

Instead of sighing loudly as she would wish to, she looks at the great direwolf that has placed itself in front of both herself and Robb Stark.

A mighty beast, she thinks, for whom she should feel more fear than she does. But humans are just as bad as wolves, if not worse.

v

Her husband leads her away. "I have exempted you from the morning session, lady wife, in consideration to recent events. But I expect that from this day forth you shall attend me whenever I hold court."

What could he possibly wish from her? Rosamund holds back the question. "I understand, Your Grace," she answers after a relatively short moment of silence. She is wondering if she ought to bring up the previous night, flatter him somehow, but the man gives her no time.

"We are leaving for Winterfell on the morrow, my lady. You shall have everything needful prepared for the journey."

"Aye, Your Grace."

vi

There is no weight pressed against her when the stars shine in the sky. There is not even the sound of a stirring within her bedchamber. For all that, even with exhaustion creeping upon her, Rosamund fails to fall asleep. She shuts her eyes tightly and prays for succour, but there is nothing for her. The gods do not care. And they never shall, not for the girl who breaks one of their rules as she does. In the eyes of the Father she has besmirched justice, the Maiden shan't protect her any longer for she has forfeited her maidenhead and the Mother can only show mercy; yet mercy is not the same as caring.

The Stranger is all she has left.

vii

Jeyne Westerling she comes across quite by mistake.

Rosamund has heard some whispers, but considering that Myrcella Baratheon is Robb Stark's lady wife and not a mere Lannister from Lannisport, she has not concerned herself with the matter. If the King keeps a mistress or ten, she cares not.

The young woman, for a woman she is, looks at her through narrowed, accusing eyes.

Rosamund pushes her hair back to reveal her scar and walks past her.

Only when she has reached one of the narrower passages does she stop.

She should have taken another road. Now she knows not where she stands.

viii

Robb heaves a shuddering breath. What could the girl possibly be doing? "Olyvar, go find Her Grace and bring her here," he orders his squire.

The young man nods his head and disappears through the door. He has his uses, Robb considers when the squire does return with the Queen in tow. Myrcella avoids his gaze and looks longingly at the wheelhouse they are leaving behind. He can almost hear her pleading to be allowed its comfort.

Though sympathetic, Robb cannot afford to waste more time. His Queen is helped onto her mare and, as soon as that is done, the journey begins.

ix

Her muscles cramp, drawing tightly and painfully as she slides down her gelding. The horse used to be a warhorse, but it is now a gelding. Still, having that male part of him removed has not reduced the size of the beast. Rosamund is tempted to rub the inner part of her legs.

She is a lady. Riding should be a pleasure, not necessity.

Soon enough she finds herself seated upon a log as camp is being made. Alla brings her water and a bit of bread. "You look pale, Your Grace," her handmaiden notes. "Shall I ask for someone with knowledge of ailments?"

"'Tis only fatigue, pray do not make much of it," the Queen refuses, for a moment forgetting that her rank is now higher than the other's.

x

Robb enters the tent, a flask of ale in his hand. By the low glow of the fire coming from without, he can make out Myrcella's form beneath the mound of furs. Without another glance her way, he unpins his cloak and takes off the light mail he wore through the day. The thick breeches he keeps on and the shirt as well. The boots are lost somewhere in the darkness.

He pushes himself beneath the furs as well. Instinctively, his body is drawn by the heat of another. Robb presses himself closer to her only to find that his own form is much warmer.


	5. iv - there was once a halo

i

Another one. Rosamund shakes her head at Alla, willing herself to dismiss the maiden's words. But she cannot. Instead, she finds herself wondering just how many ladies have had the dubious honour of catching the eye of the King.

"I will have no such talk from you," she tells her companion in the end. Not so much for her own heart as for her pride. Cella's pride.

"But we are stopping in the home of Lord Frey," Alla points out quietly, her thin lips pressing together at being dismissed yet again. "Do you not worry, Your Grace?"

The question rankles. Does she not worry?

"I do not." Brave as her words are, Rosamund still finds herself concerned after Alla nods her head. Her only worry is a royal bastard to upset the tenuous balance.

ii

The Twins have been awaiting their guests. Rosamund can see upon the faces of their hosts that there is much to settle between them all. Lord Frey is conspicuously absent and the young Queen remembers what Alla has told her.

She strains to catch a glimpse of a maiden looking longingly at Robb Stark, but there is none to be found. Mayhap she has not come out of her chamber, or it could be that she was not permitted. It still remains that there is no maiden to shed tears.

"Your Grace," comes the greeting, swiftly, "I see you have not forgotten us."

iii

Lord Walder Frey is a frail small man, lost in a swath of sturdy dour cloth and fur. His spotted skin has a sickly glow but from within that haggard face two burning eyes stare out at the world. Gods, but the man is grotesque, Rosamund thinks, peering at him through drooping lids.

"I see I must congratulate you, Your Grace, on your fine lady wife." Rosamund's spine stiffens at those words. She can hear the subtle mockery and wonders if Robb does too. Lord Frey continues, "My own sweet daughter cannot hold a candle to the Baratheon maiden."

Mayhap they can, but his own sweet daughters are not born to a ruling house. The Queen lifts her head, a challenge in the set of her jaw. She dares the old lord to outrightly insult her.

"Lord Frey." The King says just those two words and there is a wealth of hidden meaning to be found there.

iv

Secluded in the private solar, seated side by side with the man bound to by vows, Rosamund looks at the Frey whose name she does not know. He stares back at her in an almost insolent manner, searching her face. A sliver of fear stabs into her, twisting between her ribs.

But the Robb resumes speech. "Then, my lord, let us do so. The first two children born to my lady wife and I shall take to spouse members of House Frey."

"A pretty proposition, Your Grace," Lord Frey's voice cracks and breaks as he replies, "but how am I to know you shan't change your mind?"

"Are you questioning your King's word, my lord? Surely not," she cuts in, fast as a whip. "His guarantee should be more than enough for you."

"It is, of course," the other Frey answers for the head of the Twins.

"As it should. The marriage contracts are to be signed as soon as these children are born."

v

"I seem to remember a fairer creature," the man tells her, doggedly following her steps even when she refuses to answer. "Last I saw you, Your Grace, your beauty rivalled that of the Maiden herself."

"The most wondrous crafted body of stone loses its allure when the first crack appears," Rosamund answers with a thin smile, deliberately turning her injury towards the man. "I cannot conceive of why it is of such import to you, ser, that I know of this."

"I could have understood a man forsaking his vow for a great beauty," is what he offers her before turning around and leaving her alone in the hallway.

vi

It follows, of course, that Lord Frey asks for one more marriage, as a guarantee, he says. Robb allows it for some reason. And the one to go trough with it is none other than the once aspired to Edmure Tully. He is sent for and the King and Queen are to be guests at the wedding.

For a brief moment, Rosamund allows her suspicion to drag her upon a darker path, but shakes the worry away in the end. The Lannisters, even in absence of Tywin Lannister, are still a forge to be reckoned with.

She says nothing, thus, when the King accepts.

vii

He comes to her as the sun is dipping beyond the horizon line. The fading light casts a warm glow within the bedchamber. Robb wants to give her words of gratitude but he as he stands in the doorway, watching the burning rays of rose sundown bathe her upright form, the idea melts away.

"Your Grace?" she questions, stepping into the shadowed part of the chamber. "What brings you here?" There is no smile on her lips, no sparkle in her eyes. But the slopes of her shoulders lower, her pose relaxing.

He steps fully in and closes the door with a sharp sound.

viii

His lips move against hers, hands at her hips, lifting her skirts in fistfuls, drawing the material higher and higher. Rosamund feels rather like she's been swallowed by a wave that drags her deeper and deeper at sea, leaving her lost in a vastness of confusion.

Her skin warms and tingles strangely when he pulls away. Cheeks flush as the kirtle leaves her form. The light from without leaves little to the imagination and much for Rosamund to fret over. And the young woman is very much aware of the hunger simmering behind blue eyes.

He holds his hand out in silent invitation.

ix

She holds onto him as if he were her lifeline. There is little in the way of discomfort even as she is spread wide, almost too wide. The pressure knots tightly in her midsection and soars to impossible heights as lips press against her temple. It's the absentminded way of it that pulls on her heartstrings.

This is a simple kiss, delivered as if it were a habit. Rosamund moves her head slightly, her own lips touching the man's jaw line softly.

Mayhap she will grow used to having him in her bed.

Upon the heel of that thought, a groan reaches her ears.

x

Robb stumbles out of his lady wife's bed. Myrcella sleeps, lost to the world. He looks at her for a moment, noting the way soft hair runs down in golden streams upon her pale skin, the curls loose. Her shoulder is bare, flesh gleaming enticingly in the moonlight.

Shaking away the first stirrings of desire, Robb return to his task. He walks to the door and opens it. Grey Winds pads in and the guards let out a collective breath of relief.

The direwolf sniffs the length of the room, slowly making his way to where Myrcella slumbers. After a moment of still observation, the wolf nuzzles the sleeping woman with his snout, as if curious.


	6. vi - let the ground crack

i

Grey Wind pads along the floor, his massive form accounting fro creaks and sharp little sounds. Rosamund can but open her eyes to that, tired though she might be. The wolf's eyes are trained upon her.

Rosamund pulls the sheets to her chest, unconsciously rising them higher. The wolf growls and approaches the bedside. His head rests upon the mattress, tongue lolling out. He looks so much like a pup that the young woman cannot help but smile down at him.

She reached out to pet him, but her hand freezes just above the beast's head when Grey Wind draws away.

Thankfully, he does not launch at her. Rosamund remains staring at the wolf and he at her. She feels quite lost.

ii

Lord Frey is somewhat of a miracle, to be entirely fair. A grotesque little nightmare that one cannot rid themselves of. Robb wonders which daughter the man will give to Edmure. But Myrcella is already descending the stairs and Grey Wind follows at her heel.

His lady wife smiles, her pale features set aglow by the thin strings of light spearing through the high windows. The startling scar has been put on display as it seems the Queen becomes more and more comfortable in her role.

Myrcella takes the arm he offers her. "I think 'tis time to see Lord Tully's bride," she says. Robb nods his head and pulls her slightly into his side as they are led away to where the woman supposedly is.

iii

Grey Wind pads along the floor, his massive form accounting fro creaks and sharp little sounds. Rosamund can but open her eyes to that, tired though she might be. The wolf's eyes are trained upon her.

Rosamund pulls the sheets to her chest, unconsciously rising them higher. The wolf growls and approaches the bedside. His head rests upon the mattress, tongue lolling out. He looks so much like a pup that the young woman cannot help but smile down at him.

She reached out to pet him, but her hand freezes just above the beast's head when Grey Wind draws away.

Thankfully, he does not launch at her. Rosamund remains staring at the wolf and he at her. She feels quite lost.

iv

Roslin Frey is lovely. That is the only accurate adjective Robb can attach to the young girl. She is a shy creature, but sweet and wary and seemingly much surprised that the King and Queen would pay her any mind. But Myrcella sits down next to her and touches her shoulder briefly.

Robb does not feel right intruding upon their bonding. He calls Grey Wind away and leaves the two women to their talk. There are other matters that need his attention. And many of them involve Winterfell.

Alas he wishes he could remain in the calming presence of his lady wife, if only to listen to her speech and let his wind wonder with the lilt of her voice. What a strange thing it is to find such appreciation for one's spouse. Surprising, but not unwelcome.

v

Robb shoots Edmure a hard stare. The man, older than him, should be wiser. Apparently that is not the case. This kingship matter shall give him a headache. "Lord Tully, you will do your duty and wed one of Lord Frey's daughter. And I shan't hear a word against this."

Edmure's face explodes in violent shades of red. "He does this to humiliate us."

"Us?" the King questions. "Lord Tully, this kingdom can only thrive by alliances. As King, it is my duty to search for the best of them and see them through."

And that is that, as far as Robb is concerned. He holds himself back from sighing. He cannot believe that his uncle would be so stubborn.

vi

The wedding is as good as can be contrived in these circumstances. Rosamund worries slightly over the look in the eyes of old Lord Frey and does wish she would not have to pretend as if it brings her joy to be here. But Cella would have done it without much effort and so must she.

The fiddlers play a fast tune and the Smalljon Umber - the irony of his name brings a smile upon her lips – stands with one of the Frey maidens. Rosamund is not long without a partner herself. It is not Robb that dances with her, unfortunately, but she is not opposed to her current partner.

The one man she does not wish to invite the attention of is one Roose Bolton. To her great fortune, the man is busy paying mind to what his lady wife is saying.

vii

Robb, merry from the wine and procession, barely wits for Myrcella's return to pull her away into one of the darkened hallways. It could well be that the fire in his veins is but smoke and dust brought on by the demon of drink. Or it could be plain and simple desire. But, in this moment, as they lips press tightly together and he can still taste the spice of it, he does not care.

His mind is much too preoccupied with finding the quickest method of hiding away for a while longer. Just until he has put out the raging storm.

Myrcella gives a sharp sigh and her body follows his when he retreats.

"We should leave the guests to their wine," she says.

And that is all he truly wants to hear.

viii

It's the string of pearls that catches her eyes when next she wakes. Rosamund cannot remember if she has seen it before, but she reckons that she has not; although Cella had many trinkets brought for her from King's Landing.

This time the direwolf is nowhere to be found, so Rosamund sees her out of bed and walks to the low table. She picks up the row of shining pearls and holds it up, measuring the length with her eyes. It's an impressive piece.

She places it back upon the table and starts her count at the very first. Rosamund is still counting when the door opens to admit within her husband.

"I see you are awake, lady wife, and well before the rest of our court as well."

ix

"'Tis a fine gift," she says, holding up drooping curls. Robb wonders at her wayward tresses and can but guess that sleep has mussed them up. He remembers that Sansa once begged for Lysene curls and was quite disappointed when they did not last.

The memory of his sister, unexpected and intrusive in such a moment, make his innards roil uncomfortable. He can see Myrcella's face in the silver looking glass and his own reflection as well. She is still looking at the pearls.

"They suit you well, lady wife," he replies, pulling away, distancing himself.

There is something here that does not feel quite right. Caught between guilt and genuine budding affection for the woman he has married, the King tries to find a shield in duty and the need for sacrifice.

x

They will depart for Winterfell.

Rosamund knows, in the depths of her mind, that this is where her acting truly begins. She has been somewhat protected up until this point by circumstances contriving to put little of the King's attention upon her. She hopes that the details of Cella's visit to Winterfell yet reside within her mind.

If they do not, all the pearls in the world shan't be enough for the price that she will pay.

The Queen bows her head in prayer, not because she thinks the gods might help; but rather because she hopes.

Hope dies last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks. :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fernweh](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10980228) by [schadenfreude (solitariusvirtus)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/schadenfreude)




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